The Call of Duty
by brownpaperbags
Summary: Lassiter's point of view on the events of the episode Shawn Takes a Shot in the Dark. There are also some missing scenes that I decided to make up. PLEASE REVIEW!
1. One Last Call

Spencer, the bane of Carlton Lassiter's existence, or at least his existence for the past four years. He should have known the young man would be trouble from the moment he first walked into the police station full of cocky swagger and a can't-touch-me mentality, spouting some nonsense about psychic abilities.

There was no room in Lassiter's life for the paranormal and never had been. He was a black and white kind of man and so far this see-it-to-believe it mantra had made him a damn good detective. He was trained to look at cold hard facts and turn them into answers that would stand up in a court of law and bring satisfaction to his mistress, the sweet lady justice. So, how was it that the kid could put his fingers to his forehead and come up with an answer to every case he was hired for?

Lassiter shook his head and sighed, glancing over at his weary partner who clasped a cup of coffee in between her manicured hands.

"Guster better have a damn good reason for calling us in the middle of the night," he grumbled to her.

"I'm sure he does," Juliet sighed, sipping her coffee timidly to test the temperature. "It isn't like Gus to cry wolf, Carlton."

Lassiter rolled his eyes and huffed out a breath, pulling his brand new car into the parking lot of a dilapidated storage yard, abandoned vehicles dotting the landscape like metal skeletons. He turned the ignition off and sat silently, glaring out at whatever caught his eye.

"We could turn around," he muttered. "Just go home and get right back into bed, O'Hara. This is probably some more of Spencer's tomfoolery anyways."

His partner didn't say anything, but he didn't have to be a stupid psychic to know she was frowning at him in disapproval, lips pursed in the way that only women could master. His mother used to frown at him that way, his ex-wife to, but he didn't tell O'Hara that. He knew that sometimes his brain didn't connect properly with his mouth and he said things that were either extremely offensive or just plain awkward, but he had learned his lesson with his partner. The woman could make working with her hell on earth and besides, the lady had a gun and knew how to use it.

"Fine," he huffed. "Let's just get this over with."

He opened his car door and slid his long legs out from the car, having to duck his head awkwardly to lift his lanky frame from the seat. O'Hara, as prim and graceful as ever, slid from the car in one smooth motion and balanced her coffee cup on the roof as she slipped her cellphone into her jacket pocket.

Carlton could see Guster standing some distance down from them and the two cops made their way over to him. The first thing Lassiter noticed was the worry etched into the lines of the man's face. The second was the horrid fireman pajamas he was wearing, the tiny fire engines a stark reminder of everything Carlton hated about the duo. Where was the professionalism? Where was the sense of pride?

"Gus," O'Hara called. "We got down here as soon as we could. Are you alright?"

"You two had better have a very good reason for dragging me out of my bed and down here to no-wheresville at four-thirty in the morning," Lassiter growled. "Where the hell is Spencer?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Gus replied grimly.

"If I wanted to make guesses," Lassiter snapped. "I would go on a game show. What the hell is going on?"

"Look," Guster said defensively. "All I know is that he left me this message about an hour ago."

The young man took his cellphone from his pocket and fiddled with it for a moment, odd blips and beeps echoing in the night's silence. A second or two later, Spencer's voice came jabbering up from the speakers, tinny and, as usual, annoying.

"Buddy, I figured it out. It's sweet! The whole thing was just a rehearsal. I'm leaving my place. Meet me down at the storage yard now. Come in your fireman pj's if you have to. Just be there!"

"What does that mean," Juliet asked. "Rehearsal."

"I have no idea," Guster replied with a small shake of his head.

Lassiter scowled. He had a whole stack of reports to get to in the morning and here he was bailing Shawn out of whatever mess he'd gotten himself into. Chief Vick should have given him twelve different commendations by now just for having to put up with the hair-brained twerp. Wasn't it enough he saw the man in his waking hours? Now he had to see him during his sleeping hours to?

Guster's phone jingled annoyingly and Carlton was half tempted to slap it from his hand. He bit down on his tongue and curbed his irritation. Guster looked genuinely concerned and while he disliked Spencer a great deal he didn't hate the man enough to wish him harm.

"Wait," Guster said. "This just came in from Shawn."

"Read it," O'Hara ordered.

"I have no idea what this means," he answered, face crinkling in confusion. "Trunk, yelrfx, ocone pol peac sig."

"What is that," Juliet gasped.

"Its jibberish," Lassiter said, a small pit of worry creeping into his belly.

Lassiter wasn't sure what made him look down at the ground at that moment. In the coming days he would tease Spencer relentlessly and tell him he had a psychic vision, but no matter what the reason the end result was the same.

There was something shining in the dirt and gravel perhaps ten feet away from the group and the worry in Lassiter's stomach exploded into a hornet's nest of concern. Whatever the liquid was Carlton would bet his entire pension that it wasn't motor oil.

"Wait," Guster cried. "There's more! Binshot not lol."

"What is he talking about," Juliet asked in confusion.

He strode over to the puddle and leaned down, listening with one ear as Guster repeated Shawn's last text over and over hoping to make sense of his words. He stared at the puddle for a long time not really wanting to discover its true origins, but knowing it was his duty to do so.

"What are you playing with over there," Juliet called to him, finally noticing his absence.

He sighed and grit his teeth, dipping one finger gently into the pool and lifting it again to study the liquid in the scant light of the moon. His heart thudded painfully against his ribs as he stared almost uncomprehendingly at the red splotch that stood out profoundly against his skin.

"It's blood," he said in disbelief.

Guster was still repeating the stupid text over and over and each time he did the words snapped into Lassiter's brain like a thick rubber band. Perhaps the young pharmaceutical salesman hadn't figured it out, but he was a cop and the text made perfect sense to a man who spent almost every waking moment with a gun strapped to his hip.

"Oh my god," Guster rasped, realization dawning on him. "Shawn's been shot!"

"Right," Lassiter commanded, shoving his surprising concern to the side. "O'Hara, let's canvas the area. We need to make sure that he's not still here. Gus, you call Chief Vick and tell her we have a man down and possibly MIA. Tell her we'll need a crime unit out here asap."

O'Hara stared, horrified, at the large patch of blood and Carlton was instantly at her side, hand on her shoulder, grip gentle but firm.

"O'Hara," he repeated. "I need you here with me. We have to see if Spencer is still here, alright?"

For a moment her eyes were twin pools of disbelief and shock, but she shook her head slightly, pony tail swinging as she did, and became the hardnosed cop she was trained to be.

"Okay," she breathed. "Okay, I can do this."

Lassiter smiled encouragingly at his partner and the two began to follow the blood trail with almost mindless efficiency. Carlton knew that O'Hara cared a great deal for the pseudo-psychic and he often wondered if her feelings extended beyond the friendship variety, though he never cared to ask, or dared to as the case may be. Perhaps he feared what her answer may be because he certainly didn't understand how any intelligent capable woman could fall for a child like Spencer.

"It ends here," O'Hara said quietly, studying the last smear of blood in disbelief. "Where could we have gone, Carlton? It's not like he could just disappear."

"You're not thinking clearly," Lassiter scolded gently. "Think like a detective, O'Hara."

"Sorry," she whispered, swallowing visibly. "It's just…its Shawn, Carlton."

"I know," Lassiter replied. "All the more reason to think like a cop. We have got to keep our heads on straight or he could die."

"If he hasn't already," O'Hara sniffed then rolled her eyes at her own self-pity. "Sorry, I don't know why I'm being such a negative Nancy."

"You care about him," Lassiter said simply. "That always makes it harder."

"Yes," she said with a slight nod. "It really does, doesn't it? Have you ever handled something like this before?"

"What," Carlton asked. "Worked a case where somebody I knew was the vic?"

"Yeah," O'Hara answered quietly.

"Just once. It was maybe a year after I earned my detective's badge. A girl that had lived on my street when I was a kid went missing. My mother and hers were good friends so we had grown up together."

"Did you find her," O'Hara asked.

Lassiter was quiet for a long time, sweeping the area with trained eyes for any clues as to where Shawn might have been taken. He wanted to give his partner hope, not crush her already delicate spirits, but the answer to her question was not a happy one.

"Yes," Lassiter finally answered, hoping that she would leave it at that.

"And," O'Hara insisted. "She was ok?"

"She was dead, O'Hara."

"God," Juliet croaked. "Carlton, I am so sor—"

"Don't be," Lassiter barked gruffly. "It's part of the job, O'Hara. Sometimes the bad guys win, but I've made it my life's mission to make it that much harder for them to get away with it."

"Do you think that Shawn—"

"Don't go there, O'Hara. There is nothing but heartache if you do. For right now all we know is that Shawn was shot and that he was coherent enough to send Guster a text even if it was the most cryptic damn thing I've ever heard from him. That's a good sign. Keep it simple, look at the facts, and you'll do just fine."

"It's easy for you," O'Hara muttered. "You don't even like Shawn."

"Look," Lassiter sighed, rubbing a weary hand through his hair. "Spencer is not my favorite man in the world, true enough, but I don't hate him. In his own roundabout way he helps people and that counts for something in my book. I'm going to do everything in my power to find him and bring him back safe, O'Hara. I owe the kid that much."

Juliet nodded, but Lassiter couldn't help but notice the lack of conviction the gesture held. He wanted to say that her lack of faith didn't hurt him, but he would be lying if he did and Lassiter was nothing but honest, even when he wished he didn't have to be.

"Look at the trail again," Lassiter ordered. "Clear your mind and tell me why it might have ended."

"They put him in something," came O'Hara's immediate reply. "A car, maybe."

"I think you got it in one," Lassiter commented with a small smile. "Look here, there are tire treads. We'll have the lab rats take a look at them and see if they can decipher what kind of tires they were using."

"I didn't think they were working on a case," Juliet whispered. "What the hell did he get himself into, Carlton?"

"I don't know," Lassiter replied. "But I sure as hell plan to find out."


	2. Patchwork Fatherhood

An hour later the storage yard was swarming with CSI and the lab rats that inevitably followed in their wake. Carlton despised lab rats, though he knew that his job would be incredibly difficult without them. They were an arrogant group of bastards and found whatever reason they could to flaunt their supposed superior intellect in cop's faces whenever they had the chance.

Lassiter believed they were a necessary evil, though, he supposed, he may have been a bit harsh in his judgment. He had only ever talked with a few of them and as his mother used to tell him a few rotten eggs don't make up the whole coop. Still, he chose to keep his life simple and treat them all the same rather than take the time to delve into the world of laboratories and the denizens that frequented them.

He looked approvingly at the yellow tape that cordoned off the area as a crime scene and studied the evidence markers that trailed the pool of blood like a macabre group of checkpoints. The area had been zoned according to size and the CSI techs had swept the ground looking for clues of the crime that had taken place there. O'Hara and Guster waited patiently by his side for him to explain their findings which he did, with more gusto than was probably appropriate for the situation, but he couldn't help who he was.

"Alright," he said in his best commanding tone. "Based on the blood patterns and marked on the ground he was shot here and dragged this way."

They already knew all that, but Lassiter always found that starting from the beginning and working his way down the list of events was more conducive to a successful investigation.

"Blood trail ends here," he said, pointing absently. "We couldn't get any usable tread marks, but these swirls in the gravel indicate a kickback from a car pooling out of here at a rate of speed. We recovered a single shell casing. Shooter used a .45 auto."

He looked up at the sound of a car door slamming and swore loudly in his head. Spencer's father was making his way towards them with a look of sheer determination on his face. Damn, damn, damn! Family always complicated matters and Shawn couldn't afford complications if he was going to be rescued before he either bled to death or his captors tired of his constant chatter and shot him again.

"Who the hell called him down here," Lassiter snarled.

"I did," Gus answered defensively. "It's his father—"

"Which is exactly why I don't want him here," Carlton growled. "If Shawn really is shot there will be no room for family in the investigation."

"If Shawn has been shot there's no room I'm not going to bust open to find my son," Henry snapped. "You got it?"

"Henry," Lassiter began, trying to keep his irritation from creeping into his tone. "Please."

"Carlton," O'Hara said firmly. "This thing may get personal. We might need him."

He glared at his younger partner, but she didn't flinch away from his gaze as most in the department would have. She stared back at him in defiance and he sighed, breaking eye contact with her and conceding her victory.

"We do this, we do it my way," Lassiter snapped. "No questions. Spencer will ride with me. We'll chase the breadcrumbs to find Shawn. O'Hara, you take Guster and retrace Shawn's steps in whatever ridiculous investigation he got himself into. We've got a lot of ground to cover. Let's go."

He strode purposefully towards his car and grit his teeth as Henry followed him, wishing he could come up with a reasonable argument for the retired cop to remain there. He knew O'Hara was right, but Lassiter didn't want the inevitable emotions that would follow if events turned ugly. He'd been the one to break the news to his missing friend's mother and the look in the woman's eyes was not one he would ever forget.

She had loathed him in that moment. She had known him since he was a boy, had baked him cookies and given him birthday presents, but she had hated him in a way that only a grieving mother could. He hadn't been the one to take her daughter, hadn't murdered her in cold blood and left her in an alley garbage unit to rot like yesterday's trash, but it was him she blamed. He was the one she had trusted to bring her little girl back to her and he had failed her. He had failed Charlotte, the girl he would never again see smile or join hands with when their families said grace. It was a failure that still kept him up at night.

Lassiter had never been friends with Shawn and any respect he had for the man was given grudgingly, but Henry had been a good cop despite the way his son had turned out. The older man had given his life and blood to the service of protecting others, same as him, and that warranted an unspoken companionship between them. Carlton had even looked up to the man back in his early days and for Henry to be broken by grief in front of him was a thought Lassiter couldn't stand to entertain.

"I know what you're thinking," Harry said gruffly as they pulled out from the storage yard. "You don't want me here because you think I won't be able to handle seeing my son dead."

Lassiter glanced at him before flitting his eyes back to the road. The man's expression had been hard, but Carlton could see the lines of worry that wrinkled his face.

"Something like that," Lassiter grunted. "No father should have to see that, Henry."

"No," Henry replied quietly. "They shouldn't, but if there is a chance he's in danger and I can help him, you can be sure I'll do whatever it takes to do just that."

"I know," Carlton replied evenly. "That is another reason for my concern, Spencer. I can't have you running off like a vigilante and getting yourself killed. You could kill Shawn in the proce—"

"I've been a cop for a lot longer than you, son. You don't have to school me on the risks like a rookie."

"Sorry," Lassiter allowed. "Old habits die hard."

"I trained him for a situation like this," Henry said softly. "His whole life I tried to prepare him and he fought me the whole way. He's a smart kid, but sometimes he can be obdurate to the point of stupidity. Jesus, I hope he remembers what I've taught him."

Lassiter didn't know what to say to that and he felt a slight pang of guilt at the jealousy that had coursed through him. His own father had rarely been around and even when he had he barely noticed his son. He was too busy doting on the various women he kept around when Carlton's mother bored him. He hadn't spoken to his father since the messy divorce they'd gone through when Lassiter was fifteen, but the urge to be recognized by his father for his achievements had never really faded.

He would have given anything to have his father spend the time and energy to teach him that Henry had given to Shawn. The younger Spencer had always acted as if his upbringing had been hell on earth, but it couldn't have been too bad. A little unconventional, perhaps, but if Henry didn't desperately love his son the retired cop wouldn't be sitting in the car with him, promising in no uncertain terms to find his only child. Oh, how he wished he could have been loved so unconditionally.

"You-you're a good father," Lassiter said, embarrassed by the thickness in his voice.

"Shawn doesn't think so," Henry sighed sadly. "We've been broken for so long I don't know if we'll ever fix it entirely. I wanted nothing but the best for him. Maybe I pushed too hard, but—"

"Your intentions were good," Lassiter finished quietly. "Shawn doesn't realize how lucky he is."

"I never knew what to do with him," Henry laughed suddenly. "We were so different, he and I. The trouble that kid could get himself into and, of course, he always managed to convince Guster to take the fall with him. I never knew two boys that had such a knack for raising hell. I probably never will. And to think, I wanted him to be a cop just like his old man."

"Well," Lassiter replied amiably. "In Shawn's own special way I suppose he is. He may not be the most conventional peacekeeper and I'm still not buying into all his psychic bull, but he's an accepted member of our team."

"I know," Henry said.

"Are you proud of him," Lassiter asked hesitantly.

Henry was quiet for a moment, staring idly out at the trees they passed, skeletal forms whizzing by in a blur of shadows. Lassiter couldn't tell what the older man was thinking, but there was a contemplative smile quirked on his lips and his eyes were soft with something akin to affection.

"I'm proud that he's finally found a way to put his abilities to good use," Henry finally replied, turning his head slightly to meet Lassiter's cool, grey gaze.

"His abilities," Lassiter repeated. "His psychic abilities?"

"Some people call it that," Henry replied, hedging around Carlton's unspoken inquiry. Is your son really psychic?

"And what do you call it," Lassiter urged, unwilling to let this moment slip between his fingers.

"A gift," Henry answered with a predatory smile, daring Carlton to continue his line of questioning.

Lassiter didn't push the issue and he briefly wondered what he would do if he ever discovered that Shawn was a fake, as Carlton suspected him of being. He wanted to say that he would go directly to the chief and have Spencer thrown out on his ass, but there was a small part of him that wondered whether he would really go so far. He would ream the younger man out, for sure, but did he have to go any farther than that? Whatever Spencer could do it had proved useful on numerous occasions and while he hated to admit it, his 'gifts' could prove to be a valuable asset for many years to come.

The sun was just beginning to peek its head over the top of the trees when Lassiter's cell phone rang. He looked down at the caller ID and found O'Hara's name flashing blue on the tiny screen while the _Cops_ theme song blared from tiny speakers.

"Lassiter," he barked.

"Carlton," Juliet said. "We've got some information you might want. I don't know if it will help you much, but its what we have."

"Go on."

"This whole mess has something to do with the ice cream truck that exploded a couple of days ago. Gus said that Shawn got a strong psychic vibe that something wasn't entirely right with the way the accident went down. He said that the vehicle was blown on purpose."

"Of course," Lassiter grumbled. "Leave it to Spencer to come up with some conspiracy theory."

"I think he was on to something," Juliet admitted through the phone. "They found out who was servicing the ice cream trucks and went to do some digging. They met a guy named Garth Lawnmower and—"

"Lawnmower," Lassiter repeated incredulously. "You've got to be kidding me, O'Hara. That's really his name?"

"So far as we can tell," Juliet sighed. "We're on our way there to see him now. Ask him some questions and see if he remembers the last time he saw Shawn. Any luck with his text message?"

"No," Lassiter replied irritably. "Not a damn thing."

"It will come to you, partner. It has to. Call me if you have something."

"Yeah, you to, O'Hara. And be careful."

He clapped the phone shut and pulled over to the side of the road, putting a weary hand over his eyes to shield them from the bright morning sun.

"What are you doing," Henry demanded. "This is no time for cat naps, Lassiter. My son is out there."

"I'm aware," Lassiter replied irritably. "Let's just stop and think for a minute. There is no use in us driving around without reason."

"Has anyone tried tracking Shawn's phone," Henry asked.

"His GPS must not be working," Lassiter replied. "They can't get anything."

Lassiter looked at the copy of Shawn's text message on his notepad and repeated the words over in the hopes that hearing them aloud might trigger something in his brain. So far he was having no luck.

"How the hell does he expect us to find him with this cat scratch," he snapped, looking at the phone with disgust.

"Hey, come on," Henry said, ripping the useless piece of paper from his grasp. "We can do this. It's a text message. There are abbreviations. That's how you text. You are just out of the loop on what the young people are doing now."

Lassiter raised his eyebrows incredulously and glanced over at the obviously older man.

"The young people," he repeated questioningly. "Uh, yeah, fact check. I'm a little younger than you."

"You sure about that," Henry asked, looking him up and down.

Lassiter's eyebrow shot up even further and he shot Henry a withering look. Jesus, he thought, the man is as annoying as his son.

"You're kidding right," he said mockingly.

The man ignored him and Lassiter ground his teeth. He was the detective here, not him and he deserved a little respect. He leaned over and neatly plucked the notepad from the man's grasp.

"Look," he sighed. "With all due respect, Spencer, I know you were a good cop, but I'm still on the force and maybe I'm a little more viable at this point."

"Ohho," Henry chuckled, clearly amused. "We'll see. You know, you hear them out loud and you can trigger some stuff."

Lassiter looked up from his scribbles and rolled his eyes. I know, he thought in irritation, but he handed the notepad back to Henry obligingly, biting back the urge to ask him what the hell the old man thought he'd been doing earlier.

"O cone," the older man began. "Cone, maybe the o is on it's own. Maybe it could be its own word, uh, outreach, outhouse cone, oval cone—"

Lassiter couldn't help but send him a scathing look at that one.

"Orange cone," Henry continued then stopped as the word suddenly fit. "Orange. Cone. Construction. Could this be pertaining to some sort of construction?"

"Yel reflex," Lassiter said, excited in spite of himself. "Yellow reflector!"

"Peace sig," Henry said in confusion, pointing down at the paper. "Peace sig. What the hell is a peace sig?"

"I'm not sure," Lassiter replied quietly. "But I do know a stretch of road on the 166 that's been under construction for more than a month."

"Well," Henry whispered. "That's worth a shot."

Lassiter shared a knowing glance with the older Spencer before turning his car back on and spinning out of their makeshift parking spot like a bat out of hell. God, he loved new tires.


	3. Friend is a Four Letter Word

Lassiter adored silence. O'Hara was constantly trying to needle him into allowing the radio to play quietly in the background of his car, but he always squashed the idea. There was something primal in the quiet, the way his brain kick started and allowed thoughts to flow through that had previously been hindered by the sound waves of everyday life.

Humanity feared silence almost as much as they feared the dark. It was a subconscious terror, he supposed, and one that was rarely thought about on a conscious level at all. It was in the way mankind reached for the radio knob when the car went quiet, the way background noise filled the various spas and massage parlors. It was the desperate need to fill gaps in conversation and the lullaby that mothers crooned to their sleepy children. Silence allows a man to hear his heart beating within his chest and the blood rushing through his veins and in that moment he becomes something capable of dying.

Lassiter, however, was not like most men. His mother had been telling him that since he'd been a toddler and though it sounded cruel she had meant it well. He was more than happy to pass the time between one destination and the other going over the facts of Shawn's case. Henry was not so keen on the idea and wouldn't shut up. Lassiter was once again struck by how similar father and son actually were.

"Is your first aid kit up to date," Henry asked nosily, peering behind him in the backseat to eye Lassiter's emergency kit dubiously.

"Yes," Carlton sighed. "I restock it every month, Spencer."

"And your radio," Henry demanded. "You sure you have it on the right frequency? We don't want to miss any emergency transmissions, you know. Someone could have found Shawn."

"Henry," Lassiter growled between grit teeth. "Everything is going to be fine. Just relax."

"Relax," Spencer scoffed with a snort. "Don't tell me to relax, buddy. The moment you have a son and he's out there hurt, possibly dead, and you're able to keep it cool then you can order me around, but until then don't you dare tell me to relax."

Lassiter huffed out a frustrated breath and gripped the steering wheel tightly. He liked the feel of the leather as his fingers squeezed and he imagined the supple hide stretching beneath his powerful hands. The soft squeak it made reminded him of his days at Old Sonora, hitching horses with callused hands and slow, patient movements.

He stared at himself in the rearview mirror and could almost see the young man who had made the Old West his home. He had been twelve the first time he'd ever set eyes on the western town and he'd fallen in love with it right from the very start. When he was there he could forget about the screamed arguments and brutal name calling that had taken place in his parent's bedroom the night before. He could forget the sight of his mother's tears as she sat hunched over in the corner of the living room, mascara streaming down her face like black ooze, shoulders shaking with the force of her sobs.

In Old Sonora there had been a man who cared for him in a way that Lassiter's own father never had. He was a rough man, to be sure, but he was the kindest, gentlest soul Carlton had ever met. He never looked at Lassiter with disappointment in his eyes, never called him names that stung like physical blows, and never pretended he didn't exist. The old man listened with an open mind and an open heart and taught Carlton the values that truly mattered in life.

Lassiter snuck a glance at the elder Spencer and frowned at the worry written all over his face. He'd never had a child and didn't have much experience with children in general. Victoria, his ex-wife, had constantly argued with him about having a baby and when he had scoffed at the idea at the time she had thought he meant never. This wasn't the case, of course, but he couldn't help but wonder what kind of father he would be.

"Listen," Carlton began. "I know you think that you are doing the right thing for Shawn, but maybe—"

"Carlton," Henry said evenly. "If I were you I wouldn't finish that sentence. You have no idea what is right for my son. Hell, you barely even know anything at all about him. So keep your opinions to yourself because they aren't welcome."

Lassiter wanted to scream at the man. He was trying to help, for God's sake! Couldn't anybody see that? It seemed like everywhere he turned he was looked at as the villain that hated Shawn. Why couldn't anyone see that Carlton was just as desperate to find the stupid psychic as the rest of them?

He gripped the steering wheel again as they rounded the bend and he was relieved to see that they had arrived in the general proximity of their destination. A cheery yellow sign to the right of him asked him to reduce his speed, but Carlton merely stepped on the gas pedal, raising a figurative middle finger at the command.

"Alright," he said refusing to look at Spencer. "This is the area. There's construction for the next six miles."

"There's our peace sig," Spencer muttered.

Lassiter looked out and found another sign informing him of a possible need to stop. The alarmingly yellow metal was stained by a spray painted peace sign with little speed drips of white paint spattering down its sides.

"It's a peace sign," Lassiter said in disbelief.

"That's what Shawn saw," Henry agreed.

"Woah, woah, woah," Henry said, pointing down the street. "A yellow reflector."

"Orange cone," Lassiter pointed out, heart thumping against his ribs in an excited rhythm. They were getting closer and the veteran detective prayed that they would find the young man with as little blood shed and tears as possible.

"Stop the car," Henry yelled suddenly. "Stop the car right here!"

"Why?"

"Just stop it!"

Lassiter slammed on his brakes, a grim smile curving his lips as the brakes squealed in protest. The car came to a sudden stop with an almost angry jerk in the middle of the road.

"God, I love new breaks," he crooned, whipping his car into park. "Alright, what are we looking at?"

Henry made an automatic beeline towards something lying on the side of the road and Lassiter craned his neck over the man's shoulder to see what it was. His brow furrowed in confusion at the tiny, red piece of plastic that had obviously once belonged to a taillight.

"This was from the car Shawn was in," Henry said confidently, turning to show Lassiter his discovery.

"Henry," Lassiter argued. "There's accidents up and down this highway everyday and—"

"No, no," Henry pressed, holding the taillight into Lassiter's face. "This is Shawn."

Lassiter's stomach sank. This was exactly what he'd been worried about. Henry had gotten himself so worked up over his son's disappearance that he wasn't thinking clearly.

"How can you be so sure," Carlton asked, trying not too offend the retired cop anymore than he already had.

"Because I'm the one who taught him how to do it," Henry said quietly.

"What?"

"Listen," Henry explained. "When Shawn was a kid I taught him how to survive in situations like these. I schooled him on the best way to run when trying to avoid a captor. I taught him how to slip handcuffs and most importantly I taught him how to kick out the back of a taillight if he found himself locked in a trunk."

Lassiter stared at the man for a long time without saying a word. When Henry had informed Carlton about Shawn's training earlier he had assumed that the older man meant simple life skills and helpful tricks to surviving outdoors on his own. He had not expected Henry's life lessons to involve running from criminals and getting out of handcuffs.

"You didn't actually lock him in the trunk, did you?"

"The best way to teach is by using practical application," Henry replied. "My father taught me that."

"Sure," Lassiter said quietly. "But, Jesus, Henry. That's…that's taking things a bit too far, don't you think?"

"It worked, didn't it?"

"I guess, but—"

"But?"

"I don't know," Lassiter finished lamely. "If it's saved his life then I suppose I can't judge you on how you parent."

"That's right," Henry growled. "You can't. I did what I felt was best for Shawn and maybe I was a bit harsh, but even if only one of my lessons helps him in life then I can die knowing I did something right by my kid."

Lassiter didn't have anything to say to that and was secretly grateful when his phone rang. He flipped it open and felt relief flood through him as their heated, uncomfortable conversation was replaced by the cool efficiency of the job.

"What have you got for me, O'Hara?"

"Not much," Juliet replied honestly. "But, it's a start. Garth Lawnmower died all the way back in 1954. Whoever this guy is he is certainly up to no good."

"Alright," Carlton said. "So we don't know the guy's name but he's definitely our bad guy. Have any leads?"

"All we got was that he was last seen driving off in a vintage 1970 Plymouth Roadrunner, yellow with black racing stripes. Have you seen it?"

"We may have seen part of it," Lassiter answered, glancing reluctantly at Spencer senior.

"Yellow reflector is the last clue that Shawn left," Henry said pointing up the road. "Which means that he must have escaped from the trunk somewhere around here. He's close."

"Alright, O'Hara, listen," Carlton ordered. "Tell McNab to get another uniform and come pick up my car. It's off 166, just past mile marker 8. Tell him that if he touches anything other than the door handle and 10 and 2 on the wheel I will personally visit his nightmares for all eternity. Copy?"

"Copy that," Juliet said with an exasperated sigh.

"Because," Lassiter sighed. "Spencer and I are going in on foot."

He hung up the phone with trepidation and looked back at his new car sending a quick prayer to the automobile gods for her safety. McNab would wish he had never been born if he so much as dirtied her pristine frame.

"Let's go find my son," Henry said quietly before taking off into the nearby line of trees.

Lassiter followed him rather haphazardly, his dress shoes not really coexisting with the mud that squished around their soles. He tripped on a protruding tree branch and nearly fell flat on his face, cheeks burning pink as Henry cast him a scathing glance.

"I was a boy scout," he said as if that gave him an automatic pass.

"And that makes it better," Henry inquired wryly, glancing back at him as he stepped over branches and rocks without so much as a teeter.

"It's been awhile," Lassiter snapped defensively. "I'll have you know that I received my Wilderness Survival badge before any other member of my troop."

"Good for you," Henry barked sarcastically. "How long did it take you to get your Walking and Talking Achievement patch?"

"It's like working with Shawn," Lassiter muttered beneath his breath.

"What's that?"

"You and Shawn are more alike then you think."

"Don't tell him that. Comparing him to me would be the most offensive insult you could possibly give him."

"I pretty much gave up on insulting Shawn a long time ago," Carlton panted. "The man has a thick skin, I'll give him that. He doesn't bother easy."

"Bah," Henry said. "Don't let his annoyingly cheery attitude fool you, Carlton. He's got feelings the same as any man and he can be hurt the same as any man. God knows I've done my fair share of tearing him down. You to, believe it or not."

"Me," Carlton asked in surprise. "You've got to be kidding me, right? He doesn't give a rats ass what I think."

"Your wrong," Henry argued, shaking his head. "Kid respects you more than you realize."

"Funny way of showing it," Lassiter muttered.

"That's Shawn for you. The bigger pain in the ass he is the more he probably likes you."

"Why?"

Henry stopped and looked at him strangely.

"Isn't it obvious," he asked softly. "If he gives you an automatic reason to dislike him then he never has to be disappointed when you reject him. It's a wall, Carlton, simple as that. The real Shawn is a lot more levelheaded then you think he is."

"The whole thing seems like a big joke to him," Lassiter said. "He comes in wriggling his fingers around and making cracks at my expense, but people have died, Henry."

"He knows that," Henry snapped defensively. "You have no idea, do you? Shawn has put his heart and soul into helping you solve crimes. Did you know that he has never stuck with a job for this long in his entire life? His whole career was spent bouncing around from place to place with absolutely no direction and no focus and then Wham! Suddenly, my son has something to get up for in the morning and he's proud of what he's created.

So, yeah, he cracks a few inappropriate jokes and basically gets on everybody's nerves, but he's there when you need him. He disappeared from my life for nearly two years. I didn't get a letter, a phone call, a text, nothing. He and Gus barely spoke and when I ask him about what he did in that period of time he refuses to talk about it with me. I think something bad happened to him, something life altering, but he's not sharing and I won't push. Not on this.

What I am trying to say, I guess, is that he cares more than you realize. He's been through more than his fair share of trials and now that I see him flourishing with a real smile on his face I can't help but be happy for him, even if he didn't travel down the exact path I had intended him to. I love my son, Carlton. And I know him better than he thinks I do. All you need to know is that he respects you in his own way and would do anything you asked of him if it meant helping you out of a bind. Don't forget that."

Carlton opened his mouth to reply, but couldn't find the words. In his speechless condition, Lassiter could hear his heart beating rhythmically but instead of his own impending doom coming closer with each knock of muscle it was Shawn's.


	4. The Gas Station Showdown

Lassiter had briefly toyed with the idea of becoming a marine. After all, he often thought of himself as a young Tom Highway from the Clint Eastwood classic _Heartbreak Ridge. _The order and discipline of the marine life also seemed to fit him perfectly, but in the end he had devoted his time to catching killers within his own homeland.

Of course, now that he thought about it he was sort of glad he hadn't signed his name on that particular dotted line. He was sure that being a marine required a great deal of walking and Lassiter honestly believed that if he took one more step his feet were liable to fall off and lay there, bruised and battered in the street. Every step he took sent shards of pain searing up his heel, through the toes, and into his ankles. Spencer, of course, seemed like he could walk another hundred miles without even a grimace.

"You think you could pick up the pace," the elder man called behind him. "Mr. Viability?"

"There was an excellent chance I was bitten by a tick back there," Carlton panted, as if that excused him. "I could be going through the beginning stages of Lyme Disease."

"Man up, Detective," Spencer mocked, glancing down at Carlton in disgust.

"What is it," Carlton said. "Steroids, right? You're juicing aren't you? I knew it."

Henry was ignoring him, which Carlton was secretly grateful for. Steroids, he thought. Really? And what was with the tick excuse? Somehow the older Spencer managed to turn him into an idiot. Like father like son.

Suddenly, Henry noticed something off to the right of them and Lassiter followed reluctantly to find out what it was. A piece of blue fabric was tied to a tree, perhaps missing from the bottom or sleeve of a shirt, and Henry fingered it grimly.

"He went this way," he said, jogging onward.

It wasn't until Lassiter got a close look at the piece of shirt that he noticed the dark blood staining the fabric. He frowned at it and tried to convince himself that the uncomfortable tightening in his belly had nothing to do with his worry for Shawn and was more likely some side effect of the tick bite he may or may not have actually received.

"Hurry up," Henry called again. "I told you I was younger than you, Lassiter."

"I have dress shoes on," Carlton snapped. "I wasn't prepared for running."

"That was one of the first things I taught Shawn," Henry said quietly. "Always be prepared."

"Well good for Shawn," Lassiter snapped. "You want to know the first lesson my father taught me, Spencer? Get the hell out of his way."

Henry stopped and peered back at Carlton with an unreadable expression on his face. For the first time in a long time, Lassiter refused to me another man's gaze and looked down at the leaf covered ground as if searching for something he might have dropped there. Your dignity, he thought. You dropped it in front of this man and now you'll never get it back.

"I made a lot of mistakes when it came to Shawn," Henry finally said. "But, he always knew he could come to me with his problems. A kid needs that, I think. He needs a man he can trust to guide him when life gets rough and save him when it becomes damn near unbearable. But, you know what?"

"What," Lassiter whispered.

"A kid needs a man to do that for him," Spencer continued. "But, he doesn't have to be his father, Carlton. That Hank Mendel? He's a good guy and he cares for you a great deal. Don't let that go to waste."

"Yes sir," Lassiter said quietly, finally looking up at Spencer gratefully.

Ok, so maybe the father wasn't exactly like the son. At least Henry had the emotional capacity to be serious for a single goddamn minute, whereas Shawn couldn't remain serious for a single second. Maybe, Carlton thought, maybe the Spencers get better with age. Like cheese or wine or…oh, who was he kidding? Shawn would never be anything other than what he was and though the kid drove him nuts a good percentage of the time, Carlton decided he wouldn't have it any other way.

Shawn had heart and guts and that was something Lassiter could admire even if it came in an undisciplined, disrespectful, and colorful package. Shawn Spencer was like Christmas, Lassiter decided. He was boisterous and in his face, loud and jubilant, a hectic, chaotic mess, but when the time was right, he could be a surprising force of nature. He was the spoiled nephew he would never admit to having but still buying heaps of presents for, the shock and awe of the presents he received after ripping off the too bright wrapping paper, the familiarity of Christmas dinner as it cooked and simmered on the stovetop.

"Christmas," Lassiter said, flushing when he realized he'd said it out loud.

"What," Henry asked, still watching him closely.

"I said thanks," Carlton muttered. "That's all."

"Right," Henry nodded. "Sure, that's what you said. Let's keep moving. I think I see a gas station up ahead. We can ask if anyone has seen him there."

"Good idea," Lassiter panted. "It'll be good to stop for a second anyways."

"Baby," Henry muttered and Carlton glared at him.

They reached the corner of the forest and the gas station Henry had been referring to came into view. It felt good to have an actual task again. Stumbling around in the woods on a mindless search had been fun and all, but Lassiter was ready for something he was actually good at.

It was a well-known fact around the department that Carlton Lassiter could make a person in the interrogation room break within minutes of his arrival. Of course, he knew that wasn't always the case, but he never refuted the awed glances or words of respect that the rookies of the department sent his way. A man needed a good morale boost wherever he could get it.

Perhaps, if he played his cards right, he could impress the retired cop striding purposefully up to the gas station door. He could prove to Spencer that he was every bit the cop the old man had been and that he was a force to be reckoned with.

They passed the old dilapidated pumps and the orange towing truck that had certainly seen better days. A faded sign hanging over the pumps boasted GAS and Lassiter smiled slightly at the ragtag bunch of tools tinkling softly in the wind. Best idea for some wind chimes he had ever seen.

"Alright," Lassiter said as they made their way to the door. "Now, you let me do all the talking, you got it?"

Spencer hadn't even let him finish his sentence before he was turning around to gripe at him.

"I got it," he muttered, turning back to face the man who had come from within the gas station.

He was a greasy looking fellow. Of course, Lassiter allowed, you would be greasy to if you spent the majority of your day underneath the hood of a car. The man's lank brown hair was down to his shoulders and he sported the mechanics suit that Lassiter had only ever seen in the movies. All the mechanics in the city wore designer jeans and V-neck T's.

"Howdy," the man said in greeting. "Can I help you gentleman?"

"Yeah," Lassiter began—"

"We're looking for a yellow vintage Plymouth," Henry interrupted. "You seen it?"

Lassiter glanced over at the older man in annoyance but decided to let the first interruption go on account of the man missing his son.

"Oh yeah," the man said, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. "As a matter of fact, I have. You don't forget a car like that. Pulled in about ten minutes ago looking for gas, but we haven't sold gas in years. I told him he had a broken taillight in back. Me and my partner got a nice little mechanic business—"

Lassiter wanted to ask all sorts of questions, the first being why hell the man hadn't taken down his damn gas sign if he hadn't sold any in years. The second would have been something about the direction or time or something along those lines, but before he could change thought into words Spencer overrode him again.

"Did you happen to see who was driving?"

The man looked from Carlton to Henry in confusion, but focused his attention back on the older man.

"Yeah," he said after a moment's hesitation. " I got a look at him. Big, oafy looking guy. Not sure he had all his marbles, kind of stupid if you ask me. I sent him up the road four miles to the next station."

Lassiter watched as Henry fumbled around in his wallet, hands on his hips in annoyance. The older man pulled a faded picture of Shawn from its depths and held it up to the greasy mechanic. It was picture from the paper, or perhaps some magazine, and Shawn stared out at them with that stupid look he got whenever he knew someone was watching him. Pouty lips, one eyebrow raised in some sort of 'Who me?' expression. Lassiter rolled his eyes.

"Was this guy with him," Spencer asked, holding the photo out for the mechanic to look.

"Uhhh, no," the man said. "That guy wasn't with him, no. Why? Is that guy wanted or something?"

"Yeah," Henry replied, folding the picture back into his wallet. "You could say that."

"Alright," Lassiter started. "Well, thank—"

"Well, thank you for your time," Spencer interrupted.

"About four miles," Lassiter tried again.

"You said that was about ten minutes ago," Spencer said loudly.

Lassiter grit his teeth. Nope, he was right the first time. The two Spencer's were exactly alike. The mechanic man looked at them like they had gone crazy.

"Yeah," he said quietly.

"Thank you," Spencer breathed.

The two men left the station and Carlton glared daggers into the older man's back.

"What the hell was that all about," he snapped, pulling out his phone. "I thought I was going to ask all the questions."

"Old habits," Henry sighed, repeating the detective's earlier excuse.

"Cut it out, alright," Lassiter growled. "I'm in charge of this investigation. God, it's just like working with Shawn."

He put his phone to his ear and listened in annoyance as McNab's rather girly ringback tone tinkled in his ear. The young man answered with a cheery hello and Lassiter felt the urge to punch him in the face.

"Yeah," Lassiter huffed. "McNab, put out an APB on the Plymouth and alert all authorities to patrol the 166 to the Horse Creek exit."

He hung up then realized that Spencer had fallen behind him. He turned back and found the older cop looking back at the station as if he found something distasteful about it.

"What," Lassiter snapped. " You got more questions you want to ask? Come on, Chatty Kathy, we're wasting time."

"You want me to carry you," Henry spat, blowing past him without a second glance.

Lassiter rolled his eyes and limped along behind him, cursing himself with every painful step for not having running shoes in his car.


	5. Gun Shot Tango

_Roads go ever on and on._

Carlton Lassiter furrowed his brows as the quote popped into his head, surprised by its sudden appearance despite its relativity to the situation he had found himself in. _The Hobbit_ had been one of his favorite stories as a child…at least before his father had reprimanded him for reading "unrealistic bullshit" and, after calling him a wimpy geek, had forced him to read novels that were based in reality. After that, J.R.R. Tolkien and his mystical world of _Middle Earth_ had been sullied for him and he had not thought of Bilbo Baggins or his nephew Frodo in almost thirty years.

His feet, perhaps protesting the idea of a never-ending road, gave a nasty throb and Lassiter winced. He could feel the blisters forming on his feet and they burned relentlessly whenever his shoes came into contact with the ground. Henry, godlike in his fevered search for his missing son, felt no pain at all and carried on ahead like some kind of wrinkled, sun-tanned Hercules.

"Hey," Lassiter called wearily. "Slow down, Spencer."

Henry glanced behind him once, rolled his eyes, and continued forward, slowing enough that the younger detective could painfully catch up to him.

"Thanks," Carlton said with a huff of exertion. "I don't know how you do it, Spencer."

"My kid's life is on the line," Spencer replied quietly. "I don't have time for old age, Carlton. But, apparently you do."

Lassiter stopped, surprisingly hurt by the older man's words. He was trying, wasn't he? It wasn't his fault Shawn had stuck his nose in matters it didn't belong in…like he always did. It wasn't his fault that the pseudo psychic decided to go in alone instead of calling the authorities…like he always did. And it certainly wasn't his fault that the younger Spencer had kept him in the dark about the case…like he always did.

"I'm doing the best that I can," Lassiter said angrily. "I have always done the best I could with what Spencer gives me, Henry."

"What's that supposed to mean," Henry snapped, turning on the younger man.

"It means that I have spent four years chasing after your son," Lassiter snarled. "I have spent four years trying to keep up with his hair-brained schemes and keep him alive. I don't know if you noticed, Henry, but your son has a tendency to jump without looking. And who's there, every damn time, to clean up whatever mess he gets himself into? You're looking at him, pal. So yeah, he's your son. I get that. You're worried, but don't take your frustrations out on the guy who keeps your kid safe, Henry."

"Bang up job you did," Henry said coldly.

Lassiter opened his mouth to reply, jagged words that could never be unsaid waiting at the tip of his tongue. He wanted to wipe the look of cold indifference from Henry's face just as he had wanted to wipe it from his father's as a child. He opened his mouth, but was stopped by the look in Henry's eyes. The worry for his son Carlton saw reflected there.

Henry was not his father. Henry Spencer, despite his flaws and…unconventional parenting methods, was a man who was entirely devoted to his son. James Lassiter was a two-timing prick with an inferiority complex the size of a double decker bus. Or, as old Hank Mendel used to say, he wasn't fit to shoot at if you wanted to unload and clean your gun.

"We're going to find him," Lassiter said instead. "We'll find him and bring him home, Henry. You have my word."

Henry stared at Lassiter for a moment then nodded and turned his back on the junior detective, offering no apology for his words of anger. Of course, Lassiter had never really expected one.

"We've got to hurry," Henry said grimly, looking at the long stretch of road ahead of them. "I don't think Shawn has much time."

"How could you possibly know that, Spencer?"

"Just…just a feeling that I have. Come on, let's get going."

The elder man began a brisk jog up the road and Lassiter groaned, his feet screaming in protest at the idea of running. It was clear, however, that Henry was not going to wait for him and it was either run or be left behind. And so, gritting his teeth against the pain, Carlton jogged behind the veteran cop, trying hard to keep any groan of discomfort from his lips.

As he participated in the marathon of pain, Carlton couldn't help but curse the day he met Shawn Spencer. It certainly wasn't the first time he had such sentiments, nor would it be the last, but on that particular day, in that particular moment, his great dislike of the young man was exceedingly strong. He imagined all the horrible, gruesome ways he could make the psychic pay for this little romp from hell. Although, he conceded, it might be wise to allow him _some_ time to heal. Unless...well, unless Spencer was dead.

Lassiter frowned, glancing up at the back of Henry's head as they jogged. Even if they found Shawn alive they had no idea what sort of condition he was in. Gunshot wounds were serious regardless of where they struck and could cause any number of death inducing side effects. If Spencer had an artery nicked he would bleed out in minutes. Granted, there had not been enough blood at the crime scene to warrant such an assumption, but one could never be too prepared. Besides, even if blood loss was not an immediate factor there was always the very likely possibility of shock.

Carlton had to remind himself that Spencer had been lucid enough to send his cryptic text and the likelihood of a grievously injured man maintaining enough wits to type out a message on a phone was unlikely. Still, there was always the possibility of a gut shot and—

The bile rose in Lassiter's throat at the thought. An old instructor affectionately termed 'Old Iron Hide' at the police academy had been gut shot. The wound had forced him to retire from duty early and he had been assigned a position at the Academy shortly after his resignation. Lassiter had asked the man about his experience and the old beat cop grimly informed him that it was the most painful thing he'd experienced in his lifetime.

He didn't want to entertain the possibility of such an injury, but he owed it to both the Spencer men to do so. It was entirely possible for a gut shot man to remain aware enough to send a text like Shawn had. After all, a person could survive up to thirty hours before the wound finally took its toll, agonized and bleeding.

How would he react to that, he wondered. He had seen Shawn bruised up slightly, seen him limping about with a brace on his leg, even seen him concussed and ready to drop. But, seeing the man shot? Seeing him writhing in pain, screaming for the agony to end, and not being able to do a damn thing about it? He shuddered at the thought. And, Henry—Jesus, no father should have to see their son in such hell. No man should—

Lassiter's phone rang and he looked down at it in relief. His thoughts had taken him to a place he would rather not dwell for very long.

"What?" he snapped into the phone, jogging beside the elder Spencer.

"Lassiter," Juliet said breathlessly. "I just spoke to Shawn. He's alive. He—he was trying to give me clues about something. I didn't understand—none of it made sense. He was talking about going back…and wind chimes…wind chimes he got me for my birthday, but he never got me anything like that, Carlton. Does that mean anything to you? Because I am drawing a blank on this one and I don't know—"

"What," Carlton gasped. "Juliet…wait…slow down. Going back? Wind chimes? No, that doesn't mean anything to me."

"Woah," Henry said, spinning around and placing a hand against Lassiter to stop him. "Wait, woah, woah, woah. He's back at the gas station!"

Lassiter stood there staring at the blacktop in shock for a few seconds. The gas station? How could Shawn possibly at the gas station? There had been no signs, no—Jesus, Henry had wanted to question the clerk more, but, like a fool, Carlton had forced them onwards. What if Shawn was dead now because of his idiocy? What if the young man had died while he was wasting time in these godforsaken roads?

"Come on," Henry shouted, sprinting back the way they had come. "Come on!"

"Alright," Lassiter gasped out, spurred into action. "Juliet, make it up to Mariposa and take the exit off the 166. There's a gas station two blocks up."

"Yes," Juliet said. "Yes, that was right around where the robbery was going to take place. I'll explain when we get there."

Lassiter flipped the phone shut and drew in a giant breath of air. His energy suddenly seemed to double and the blisters on his feet no longer pained him. He knew where the son of a bitch that had hurt Shawn was hiding and had him clear in his sights.

I'm coming, Shawn, he thought. I'm coming.


	6. The Beauty of Funyuns

**Author's Note: **_Sorry it took me so long to update. Here is the next chapter. Now, I took some liberties with this chapter in how they track Shawn down. I have never understood how they knew where Shawn went so I came up with this. I hope it works and I didn't screw up too badly. Also, I did use one swear word that is a little worse than my normal foul mouth. I apologize if anyone is offended. Anyways, enjoy and please review!_

When Carlton was ten years old a boy named Billy Etherton moved to his sleepy California town. The detective rarely thought about anyone from his childhood, but the memory of Billy had stuck with him over the years. Partly because it was hard to forget being chased down the street by a gigantic specimen of a child with a handful of rocks in his pocket that made perfect geological missiles of pain, but partly because it marked the first time Lassiter had stood up for himself. The first time he realized he didn't have anyone's standards to live up to but his own.

He could still remember the look on Etherton's face when Carlton had picked up a rock the size of a large egg and chucked it at the bully's head. Shock, mild panic at having the tables turned for once, and then…well, he would have liked to say that his sudden surge of courage sent Etherton running with his proverbial tail between his legs, but what followed was possibly the worst ass kicking Lassiter had received in his life. Ever.

Still, the following day, when Lassiter limped to school sporting a black eye and a split lip, Etherton didn't so much as look at him. Everyone else did, of course, but Carlton didn't mind the attention. For some strange reason girls seemed to find the bruises on his face mysterious and alluring and boys just thought he was a badass. For one whole week Carlton basked in his newfound celebrity status, but as soon as the bruises began to fade so did Lassiter's infamy. Suddenly he was just the extremely tall, skinny, and awkward boy he'd always been, but with one difference. When kids called him Mr. Bean Pole or his personal favorite Assiter he no longer cared. He'd stood up to Billy Etherton, a thug, and it had felt good. Even now, almost thirty years later, it made him feel good to bring a bad guy down, made him feel powerful. It was part of the reason he'd become a cop.

He'd checked up on Billy Etherton some five or six years earlier. The man had been divorced twice, was at least 100 lbs. overweight, and was currently serving twenty years in prison for armed robbery. Carlton would like to say he wasn't a petty man, that he hadn't visited the clink just to rub the man's failures in his face, but the prison visitor records would make a liar out of him. And Lassiter wasn't one to tell a lie, especially for a scumbag like Billy Etherton.

Why he thought of this now he wasn't sure. Perhaps it was because he was currently sprinting as fast as he could towards the gas station where Shawn lay injured or dead as if Etherton were behind him preparing to chuck a rock at his face. There was no Etherton behind him, however. Just Spencer…a gasping, sweating, old Spencer. Who was the old man now? Lassiter smiled. No, no he wasn't a petty man at all.

He was sure he'd be feeling differently in the morning when his adrenaline wore off and his age caught up to him. It had been so much easier ten years ago when he'd been nothing more than a beat cop with a dream of one day making detective. Still, the knowledge that he wouldn't feel nearly as bad as the younger Spencer brought him some comfort…and, if he were forced to admit it, some worry. A lot of worry, actually. Lassiter grit his teeth and ran faster.

"I knew it," Henry panted behind him. "I knew there was something fishy about that greasy bastard."

"What?" Lassiter wheezed. "The mechanic?"

"Yes, the mechanic. Who else? He was shifty from the beginning."

"We don't know anything yet Spencer," Lassiter grunted. "For all we know he may have been under duress."

"Duress my ass. I'll bet you my entire pension he was in on it."

"Has anyone ever told you that you are paranoid, old man?"

"Your one to talk, Bean Pole. How many spare pistols do you have hidden around your apartment?"

"I'll remind you that at least one of those pistols has saved your son's life, Spencer."

"If you had let me go back we could have found Shawn by now."

Lassiter rolled his eyes. He found it unfair that O'Hara regularly called him impatient. How the hell was he supposed to be patient with others when all his self-control and intestinal fortitude went towards not punching the Spencers in the face on a daily basis? Juliet was obviously holding him to impossible standards.

"We had no way of knowing Shawn was in there," Lassiter growled, balling his hands into fists even as he jogged. "There were no clues, Spencer. Nothing to make us believe there was anything wrong."

"We should have looked anyways," Spencer said. "We should have gone inside and torn that place apart whether the mechanic allowed it or not."

"And tell the department what, Spencer? That I entered a private business with the intent to perform a search without probable cause or a warrant? Or that I knowingly allowed a civilian to break into said private business to perform his own search for no other reason than that his son 'might' be inside?"

"You could have lied," Henry spat. "You could have told them you heard screaming or—"

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Lassiter snapped, whirling to face the older man. "Lie to the department? I could be stripped of my badge, Spencer. And if it got out that I interfered without cause it would make any evidence found against him invalid in a court of law. The bastard would walk, Henry. And who do you think he would go after first? Your son can have all the voodoo psychic powers in the world, Spencer, but they won't stop a bullet. If you haven't realized that by now then God help you."

"But—"

"But nothing, Henry. The laws are there for a reason and you know it. How many times have you seen a thug walk because a rookie cop made the smallest of mistakes? How many times have you seen bad people walking the streets because the chain of evidence was broken? No, we do this by the book, Henry. Or not at all."

"You'd just leave him to die?" Henry yelled. "Just to prove a point? You'd let him—"

"I would go get Shawn," Lassiter said coldly. "But you wouldn't. I swear to God I'll handcuff you right now and leave you on the side of road if you don't get a hold of yourself."

"You wouldn't dare," Henry hissed.

"Try me, Spencer."

The two men stared at each other for a long moment neither willing to break eye contact with the other. Lassiter had been in testosterone matches like this one before and he had no plans to lose. Henry could make or break this case and with Shawn's life on the line Lassiter had no room for ill judgment. He knew they were short on time, knew that Shawn's life could end at any moment, but he had to be sure he had Henry under control or all three of them could end up dead.

"I am going to do everything I can to save your son," Lassiter said quietly. "But, I have to do it right. We can't afford to make a mistake here, Henry. Shawn can't afford it. So, tell me now…are you going to be a liability on this rescue, Spencer? Can I trust you to act like a cop…not a father?"

"Shawn was right about you," Henry said softly. "You can be a real asshole sometimes."

"That may be," Lassiter grimaced. "But, right now, I'm the only asshole you've got. Answer my question, Spencer. Do you have my back? Can I trust you to keep a level head?"

"Yeah," Henry whispered hoarsely after a long moment of silence. "Yeah, I've got your back."

"Good," Lassiter grunted, turning back to continue his jog back to the station.

"But Lassiter?"

"Yeah," Carlton sighed, looking behind him.

"If my son dies because you wouldn't do what needed to be done I'll hold you personally responsible."

"Don't worry," Lassiter said softly. "So will I."

The two unlikely companions didn't have much to say to each other after that and Carlton was secretly glad. He wasn't someone who wore his emotions on his sleeves nor was he any good at talking people off the metaphorical ledge of destruction. He counted himself lucky that he was speaking to the elder Spencer instead of the younger. Lassiter imagined that if he were ever faced with the task of keeping Shawn from leaping off some emotional precipice he would fail miserably. The two men were too different and Lassiter had no real understanding of how Shawn's mind worked. He'd always assumed that the young psychic was as superficial as he seemed, but according to Henry there were many more layers to the man than Carlton recognized.

Lassiter thought back on all the cased he'd worked with Spencer, all the times he'd possibly overlooked some emotional maturity from the faux psychic. The first that came to mind, of course, was the time Carlton had been accused of murder. Shawn had gone above and beyond the call of duty to prove his innocence and never once doubted him despite all the reasons Lassiter had given him over the years to turn his back on the detective. He could think of many times Shawn had come to his defense, perhaps in his own roundabout way, but to his defense nonetheless. Carlton even knew that Spencer had given up the spotlight to make the older detective look good in front of the chief and the general public although the psychic would deny this with his dying breath. For that matter, so would Carlton.

Still, the man was annoying as hell at times. It was hard for Lassiter to look past the inappropriate jokes, the childish pranks, the general lack of professionalism and see the mature adult beneath. There were times he wondered if the young man had a single shred of dignity in his body. The young man got results, true enough, but at what cost? Carlton didn't buy Shawn's psychic bullshit and he lost sleep over trying to figure out how Spencer could know the things he knew without doing something illegal or at the very least against police protocol. The kid was damn confusing at the best of times and down right irritating at the worst.

Lassiter looked up from the road and was surprised to see the gas station no more than a hundred yards ahead of them. The detective smiled grimly. Time flies when you're having fun as the saying went. He could see Guster's ridiculous blue peanut of a car coming towards them at a slower speed than Lassiter would have liked. His best friend may be dying and still the little twerp was worried about scratching his precious company car…if you could even call it that.

The Blueberry screeched to a halt just as Lassiter and Henry reached the far corner of the gas station. O'Hara was the first out of the car and had already pulled her gun from her holster by the time Carlton reached them. He pulled his own piece and put out a warning hand to keep Henry and Guster behind them. Not that he expected Henry to listen but he hoped that at least some of his earlier words had gotten through to the elder man. Juliet met his eyes calmly and he felt a surge of affection for his younger partner. He'd had his fair share of reservations about her at first, but she had more than proved her capabilities as a detective and her loyalty as a friend. Regardless of how this debacle ended he was glad to have her at his side.

The two detectives split up on either side of the door and Lassiter pointed towards the door handle. Juliet nodded once, face flushed but eyes clear and determined. He would never admit it, but his fingers shook as he pulled on the door handle. His hands had never shook before. In fact, he prided himself on his capability to keep his body and mind calm in intense situations. If Shawn was alive he promised to pummel the kid for making him break his career long record of steady hands.

As soon as the door was open Juliet moved forward, gun hand steady and strong. Lassiter followed closely behind her and grimaced when his hip bumped a metal rack filled to the brim with yellowing smut magazines. A redheaded girl winked alluringly at him from the cover of a magazine with the uncreative but effective title of "Busty Broads from Around the World." He hadn't meant to look at the woman's…assets…but he had and when he turned back to face Juliet with an apologetic frown she rolled her eyes and sighed in disgust.

"What?" he hissed, keeping his voice low. "I didn't look on purpose, O'Hara."

Juliet turned to him with her eyes wide and glared, lifting a finger to lips angrily. Lassiter sighed and nodded, moving forward to make sure nobody lurked behind the sales counter. It was clear the station had not been used to sell gas or anything else for some time. Half the freezers in the corner weren't working and the ones that did work were filled with an array of T.V. dinners and beer. He glanced at the generic brand scrawled across the cans and sniffed disdainfully. Not even good beer.

Juliet pointed at the doorway on the far side of the room and the two moved inwards together. Carlton glanced behind him and was glad to see Guster and Henry had remained at the entryway. He motioned with a hand and the men all but fell through the door stopping only when Carlton put out his hand. Henry had the nerve to make a 'hurry the hell up' gesture with his hand and Lassiter had to squelch the urge to strangle him.

Ignoring the elder Spencer, Lassiter moved to the doorway and motioned for Juliet to follow him. Both cops entered the room, guns drawn and ready, but nothing was there to meet them, no criminals lurked in the shadows. Except for the one behind the tool box. The very, very dead one dressed in a mechanics suit.

"Where's Shawn?" Juliet asked breathlessly, looking at Lassiter as if he were hiding him somewhere.

Lassiter wasn't sure what to tell her…what to tell any of them. He was sure that they would find him there, positive they would walk through that door and see Shawn, hurt but alive and annoying as ever. All he could do was stand there like an idiot, gun pointed to the floor, and gape around him in utter confusion. He couldn't turn and face Henry. He was sure the look of blame and anger he saw there would bring him to his knees with guilt. He'd been on the receiving end of that look once before, from a woman he loved like a second mother, and he had never been the same. Never forgiven himself for failing her daughter, his friend.

It wasn't supposed to end this way. Carlton was supposed to be the hero in this scenario, but without a damsel in distress to rescue there could be no knight in shining, bullet proof armor. Despite the seriousness of the situation, Lassiter took a moment to grimace at his chosen analogy. Fucking damsel in distress? Seriously?

"Where the hell is my son?" Henry spat at him. "You said you'd get him back, Carlton. So where the hell is he?"

"I don't know," Lassiter whispered. "Jesus, Henry. I don't know."

Henry was about to open his mouth to reply, but the sound of sirens and screeching tires interrupted him. All four of them looked towards the door, but only Juliet and Guster seemed to have any idea what was going on.

"That will be the ambulance and Buzz with your car," Juliet said quietly. "Someone should go let them know what's happened."

With that the young woman left, leaving Lassiter alone with Henry and Guster. Neither of them said a word to him and Carlton was glad he didn't have to defend his actions…if he even could.

"Carlton," Juliet called, barely concealed excitement in her voice. "Carlton, get out here. You need to see this."

Lassiter jumped on the chance to get away from the two civilians that were currently glaring at him. He half walked, half jogged outside and found Juliet bent over something on the ground. He barely acknowledged the paramedics and beat cops scurrying around him, his eyes focused entirely on the thing in front of him.

"That brilliant bastard," he breathed. "He left us a goddamn trail."

"What?" Henry barked. "What do you mean he—oh."

Henry stared down at the trail of onion tasting snacks that led across the blacktop, taking a sharp right on the road and continuing on until it dropped out of sight. It might have been a coincidence had the snack been anything other than _Funyuns, _one of Shawn's favorite snacks. The fact that they were smeared with blood didn't hurt either.

"Good thinking kid," Henry muttered.

"Right," Lassiter barked, filled with renewed purpose. "O'Hara, what do you say we catch this son of a bitch?"


End file.
